Sir Richard Bishop: Knucklehead Freefall

The funny thing about the Sun City Girls – and there’s a lot that’s funny, even if it’s unintentional and people don’t really realize it – is that couched in different terms, the open minded, grown up punkers that comprise some of its fan base would be completely disinterested in what’s going on. Sir Richard Bishop’s solo career is an extension of that as well.

For all the noise made about Ehtio-Jazz and the African funk compilations, there’s not too much interest from the grown up punker community in American strains of funk or jazz. That topic alone, though, might take up an entire page, so we’ll let it die off right now.

Anyway, Sir Richard Bishop has taken in a huge amount of music, both foreign and domestic, in his thirty year music career. And he’s the kind of player that’s usually able to distill it all over the course of a single album. Releasing so much music during the last three decades has allowed for the guitarist to figure out how to voice all of this stuff kicking around his head – and his record collection – in some semblance of a cohesive album.

Part of that has to do with his guitar and what qualities it takes on during any given set of recordings. Obviously, when Bishop’s attempting to make a composition come off more jazzy than anything else, his instrument needs to reflect that. So, over the course of Knucklehead Freefall, the guitarist veers between a noisy conception of his instrument and appropriating the oud’s ability to sound serpentine in almost any setting.

The scarcity of the disc and the fact that finding a physical copy at this point is probably a pretty fruitless endeavor doesn’t add or detract from the listening experience – obviously. But people seeking the disc out have ample ground to do so.

Recording solo since about 1998, Bishop occasionally graces listeners with overt homage to Django and whoever else might need a bit of worship. On “Mit's Linctus Codeine Co,” Django isn’t summoned so much as the easy going vibe his music’s associated with. The chord changes are what’s interesting, though, it’s how Bishop gets from a to b and back again, occasionally making use of a sloppy sliding up or down the neck.

The weird thing, about his disc and everything Bishop’s been involved with, is that he’s a good player, not a master, but practiced enough to pull almost anything off.

Black Sheep: A Piece of the Spols

It was at least eight years ago that Black Sheep started touring again – and touring tiny, Midwestern college towns. Hitting Athens, Oh in the aughties was obviously a calculated move. Dres, he was the only one there along with some random deejay, understood that hip hop had expanded in ways he couldn’t have imagined in the decade since the release of A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing in 1991.

Back when that album was issued, it came after the Native Tongues collective had been solidified for a few years. But the fact that Black Sheep were easily incorporated into that movement should instantly point towards the talent the duo kicked around. Unfortunately, after a few relatively successful singles and an appearance on the early days of Jay Leno’s show, the group was silent for a few years before it issued its universally panned second album. And that was pretty much it for the first chapter of Black Sheep’s history.

The time outside the spotlight, though, has seemed to sharpen Dres’ ability to dissect the situation in which he’s been attempting to insert himself in over the last few years.

After not hearing more than a few reminiscing emcees mention Black Sheep during the nineties, Dres eventually decided that there wasn’t a tremendous need to update anything. He just needed to show up again and exert his skills. He did.

I have no recollection of how that tour back in the aughties was perceived. But I do remember that the tiny, second floor bar where Black Sheep performed in Athens was packed. The pay check was probably pretty decent. And there were no doubt some willing co-eds kicking around.

With the emergence of the interwebs as the most powerful marketing tool on the earth, Black Sheep have been cropping up on tracks, videos and whatever else. It’s done a great deal for the group’s general notoriety. And someone was eventually smart enough to issue Silence of the Lambs, a collection of instrumentals, some predicated on the ensemble’s first album, some remixes and some just good music.

There’s a persistence of vision in this story. And for whatever problems Dres has run into while trying to resurrect a group that shouldn’t have ever really disappeared, the pay off’s going to be worth it. An entire new generation wasn’t able to watch hip hop blossom into a major media force. It’s here now and some of its supposedly lost heroes deserve a piece of the spoils.

Class of Nuke 'Em High: Punks in Movies from the '80s

After punk showed up, freaked everyone out and found itself mutated in the public eye until it was New Wave, there was  still a need for ‘the cultural other’ in movies. At such a late date, it had become culturally insensitive to pawn it off on black folks and homosexuals weren’t as completely vilified as they’d become until after everyone was aware of AIDS. So punks were the left overs capacious of terrifying straight audiences, looking weird and appearing to be wasted, even if they weren’t.

Brief media attention during the earliest years of the decade in major media markets played up the subculture and retrofitted it with a something of an updated greaser rebelliousness. Or that’s how it seemed at least. But beyond reportorial coverage, punks started showing up on television – Quincy for one. Surely, though, in most sitcoms from the era, there’s at least one show where a kid goes wild, engages with the punk scene and comes back to his or her sense by the end of it. Freaks and Geeks even sported an episode like that and that series was on during the nineties.

Either way, Troma films from the era did the same thing. Of course, it’s unquestionable that the folks behind those low budget smash hits were at least rubbing elbows with folks associated with the scene – I mean, Lemme narrated a film for the company.

That aside, The Class of Nuke ‘Em High sports a gang of drug dealers not specifically punk affiliated, but visually tied to the sub culture. That’s not good or bad, but the norm. The only problem being the fact that this tribe – called the Cretins, an obvious Ramones reference – are in the business of selling weed which has been tainted by nuclear waste.

At first it doesn’t seem like a big deal and actually results in a couple losing its virginity. That’s usually a bonus. But after a night wrought with weird nightmares, momentary mutations and the like, no one’s satisfied with their purchase.

As per usual with Troma efforts, the acting’s awful. And almost nothing happens during the entire film. At the same time, though, Nuke ‘Em High creates some uneasy, low rent atmosphere in which the Cretins can run afoul of authority. It’s basically a cut rate comedy – a nuclear Animal House set in high school as opposed to college. The ending’s not too grabbing and at a certain point, viewers are going to beg for total annihilation just to save them a few minutes.

Puke, Spit & Guts: Why People Hate Punk

In the annals of punk rock drudgery, there’ve been some pretty lackluster acts. A few get over on the sheer tenacity of its act. A few for the scarcity in which its albums were pressed, rendering it a collector scum’s wet dream. But the worst of all this nonsense is really why people think punk is an awful waste of time.

Yeah, sixties punk stuff can be digested as the death rattle of hard psych, stripped to its minimal core. And by extension, all the proto-punk/hard rock stuff of the seventies shouldn’t be difficult to sell off to non-punk listeners. But with Puke, Spit and Guts, there’s really nothing other than attitude. And in this case, that’s just not enough – the collectability of the group’s one album, though, has made ‘em something of note. Only that, though, has saved these scum from total anonymity.

Two of the most succinct blasts of punk ever – the Queers’ “This Place Sucks” and the Quincy Punx “Eat a Bowl of Fuck” – can’t claim any sort of nuanced song writing. Both of those cuts, though, so far surpass “Scratch and Sniff” from Eat Hot Lead, Puke, Spit and Guts’ album dating to 1980. The band wants to do it in the back…and the front. That’s all well and good (kinda). But the group’s inability to decide if it’s an updated, late sixties’ band or an inept punk group makes it all more ridiculous and unlistenable than anything.

Musicality aside, the group counts as one of the few punk acts I can manage to summon that switched off between male and female vocals – X, obviously. The Avengers (waaaay overrated), but that’s about all. And while each of those groups were well into (or past) its career by 1980, Puke, Spit and Guts were still kicking around.

Hailing from Los Angeles, though, makes it all seem odd and even more distant and useless seeing as the scene down there was big enough to include just about anyone. That’s why it’s odd that Puke, Spit and Guts haven’t cropped up in too many other places. Again, though, the band’s indecisive stance on what it actually was going to sound like probably had something to do with that. Of course, Captain Worm and Dick Head (those are the names which appear on the album) look a good bit older than the hardcore kids that were kicking around at the time. So maybe that was the reason…nah. It was the music. Pass on this one.

Vijay Iyer: The Problem with Criticism

I don’t exactly recall when or why Vijay Iyer dropped into my consciousness a few years back, but it was an auspicious occurrence. The pianist – who’s been lauded as the second coming for almost the last decade – doesn’t sport bombastic work so much as well determined inventiveness with an eye on classic compositions and music in an historical sense. His latest album, a solo affair, aptly titled Solo was issued in August and again displays the ability Iyer has to do a lot with the most skeletal ideas.

Sure, there’s a thick reasoning behind each of works here, which include a Monk cover, a few from the Ellington song book and a track most would associate with Michael Jackson. It’s an eclectic set, obviously. But even as its all focused on whatever vibes Iyer can coax out of his piano, there’s a great deal to think about and decipher. That offering from Monk’s catalog won’t even be recognizable unless listeners are paying ridiculously close attention. It sounds as if it’s influenced by the earlier pianist instead of simply being an interpretation.

This here write up was intended to do nothing more than sing the praises of a guy I enjoy listening to. Along the way, as I read a bit of background information and such, I stumbled upon the fact that AllAboutJazz has three reviews of Solo posted, each from different writers, unrelated by the date of publishing, but obviously connected by an appreciation for the same pianist I enjoy listening to.

So, Solo is a good disc. You should track it down. That’s all that needs to be said. What’s more important is how ridiculous and sad the state of music writing of the critical variety has become. I didn’t waste my time taking a look at all those reviews posted on the same sight. No one really has spilled too many negative words on this player – and that’s, I suppose, how it should be. Whether or not Iyer advances the medium is something that’s up in the air. He’s a pretty young guy. And while he’s an important player currently, there’s no reason everyone in the world needs to review the same album (my brief synopsis above should be included in that). It’s a waste of time while having nothing to do with the digital dissemination of critical writing. People, writers or whoever, just don’t take the time to locate interesting and overlooked works.

Iyer isn’t a mainstream figure, but in the realm of jazz writing, tossing out observations on his work is a waste of time at this point.

Classic Compilations: Saturday Night Pogo

Affixing the word classic to Saturday Night Pogo is pure hyperbole. The tracks here – for the most part – that are actually worth listening to are available elsewhere. But when the compilation was issued as Rhino Records’ third release it was probably something of a revelation. Coming out in 1978, the disc shares space with Cleveland Confidential and other scene-specific works from that era. That being said, the huge names from Los Angeles’ scene aren’t here. It was pretty early on, though.

The Saturday Night Fever reference is an interesting cultural artifact. Positioning itself in direct opposition to the awful dance music populating radio stations and dance floors across the nation makes proper sense. But in an move that no one could have properly calculated, having Richard Meltzer, then lead singer in VOM, pose for the album’s cover lends the disc a cache it might not carry otherwise.

We’ll get to VOM in a minute. As for Meltzer, he ranks as one of criticism’s most valiant and engaging voices of the post CREEM era. His works have encompassed more than music even as he’s touched on a huge number of disparate genres. That being said, VOM’s not really that terrific a band. And probably is recalled at this point for Meltzer’s inclusion in its line up as well as issuing some relatively early, independent singles.

Alongside VOM’s work are a spate of tracks that point to how punk was at one time something of an all inclusive idea instead of having a set of dress codes – that goes for whatever movements have cropped up since: re-garage, indie, whatever. The Motels, most would agree, don’t have enough tenacity to hold a listeners attention, but the fact that the band earned (or was granted entrance) to this track listing amply displays the freewheeling nature of independent music from a few decades back.

With that pop stuff represented, the Droogs add a bit of sixties cum seventies rock stuff that a lot of folks might want to dub proto-punk. Either way, tracking down the group’s work at this point would probably cost an arm and a leg, so while there’s nothing mind blowing here, it’s all worthy based solely on its historicity.

Unfortunately, there’s not really a stand out track – the Dils even contribute a pretty boring cut that’s easily located on whatever compilations of its work floating around now. Again, Meltzer’s picture pretty much validates the entire endeavor, so take a listen and learn something.

The Dead C: A Name Written in Noise

Song structure as a confusing mess. Intuitively, beginning with anything other than a verse and warbling some self effacing nonsense seems wrong. Why start it all off with a piece of music devised to take a listener from one part of the song to another? Just start at the beginning and go.

Regardless of whether or not that’s practiced regularly, New Zealand’s the Dead C have seen fit, since the mid eighties, to do just about whatever seems right at either the time of recording or in a live setting. But that’s almost defining the trio in terms too distinct for what it does.

Choosing at random any two albums from the band – and here we’ll reference 1997’s Tusk and a 1995 compilation (although there’s a proper album and a live bit in there) called Trap Fucking Exit – it becomes difficult to distill a specific approach to rock stuffs.

The ensemble’s appreciation of Sonic Youth is well documented – and easily heard. But for the most part, these Antipodes are capacious of moving beyond any perceived restrictions that better known band has bound itself in. Obviously the Sonic Youth dudes moved from its early, almost kraut sounds to a straight noise aesthetic and eventually on to some semblance of pop sensibility, albeit odd. The Dead C, though, seem more comfortable bashing out some inner conception of rhythm and only dashing its music with a vocal every once in a while so as to conjure the history of radio ready pop musics. Deciphering any of it, though, gets a bit tough.

Comparing the these two albums from the Dead C’s oeuvre, though, should allow folks – at least those who happen to be paying attention – to hear the band embrace groove on “Head” from Tusk and even a bit of (almost) pop music on the acoustic versions of efforts tacked onto the end of TFE. None of these works is going to help the band find a wider audience – and even if it did, the fact that the Dead C rarely tour would do too much for it career wise. But forging a relationship, though, now dissolved, with US based Siltbreeze has probably already taken the sometimes noise obsessed trio to a level of visibility it won’t be able to move beyond. That’s how it should be, though. The Dead C, even as it kicked around amidst the Dunedin scene, seems like a weird cult – one that won’t ruin your life, just your ear holes.

 

Harry Smith's "Early Abstractions" (Video)

Much more dynamic than Eggling's earlier effort, Harry Smith colorized and expanded on the possiblities set for in earlier experimental films. There's still no narrative - natch. But there are distinct sections that emerge over the course of the film's run time. As a side, these must have slayed beatniks and curled up their goatees.

Classic Compilations : P.E.A.C.E./WAR

Revisionist histories are occasionally the most entertaining kind of histories. Screw the facts. Let’s change the perception of the past.

That obviously wasn’t the intent for the P.E.A.C.E./War compilation, initially issued in 1984 and rereleased in 1997. The thing is, though, that the difference between the first and second versions of the album find a weird array of bands sitting next to each other. Everyone knows Articles of Faith and some eighties hardcore fanatics are familiar with O.D.F.X. – so it makes sense that the Chicago based band and those Clevelanders/Akroners were on the same original disc. The reissue, however, tosses on Anti Flag doing a song off its first album, which was released in 1996. That’s just a weird grouping of bands.

As evidenced by its title, the disc focuses on politically minded groups, who were under then impression that saying something was tantamount to doing something. So, with that piece of the pie in place, the second track listing makes a bit more sense. But still, the Butthole Surfers and Cause for Alarm on the same disc?

Either way, that Cause for Alarm track – “Time Will Tell” – is almost enough to reinvigorate interest in Victory Records. Not quite, though. The song still sports a tempo that doesn’t ape metal along with vocals that come closer to punky stylings than straight edged warbling. It doesn’t even matter that the drum roll, central to launching the second half of the song is pretty inept. It’s all emotive stuff. And for whatever reason, Victory and its bands later on seemed to skirt music like this. Bummer.

The aforementioned O.D.F.X. turn in a twenty second blast of anti-nuclear tension on unassuming listeners. Whether or not the band intended to write songs that were antithetical to the length of the nuclear scare itself can’t really be discerned. But its an interesting thought.

With the compilation being reissued, though, it would stand to reason that either the songs here were indispensible, not in print elsewhere or sported some other important aspect. That’s not the case, for the most part. Some of the obscured bands here might not have issued anything else, but their performances here could be the reason why. Yeah, the Dicks crop up – another odd inclusion.

Since there wasn’t then nor is there now a well defined hardcore sound, though, P.E.A.C.E./War serves more as a primer to aggressive musics than it does a political statement.

The Toy Killers: Is it Unlistenable?

To define No Wave is to kill it. The genre only properly functioned for a few years at the tail end of the seventies and briefly into the eighties. What seemingly wound up happening was that players associated with the scene branched out into other art practices or were enrapt in the downtown jazz scene. None of the meant an immediate end to the pseudo genre. And Sonic Youth can be figured as its highest profile practitioner at this point. For all of these reasons, though, the thought that there were lost recordings from groups working in this mold, never really occurred to me. Could there really have been that many ensembles capacious of working up a set, solidifying an approach to the music and recording a high quality product in such a short time without anyone knowing about it by now?

I guess so.

Weasel Walter, the man behind the Flying Luttenbachers in addition to a spate of other collaborations and a slew of recordings under his own name, though, has become a scholar on par with Byron Coley on this genre of music. And somehow Weasel was able to hunt down some lost tapes by a group called the Toy Killers.

Before getting into the music, though, it’s worth mentioning that everyone from John Zorn to Bill Laswell made appearances with this group either live or for recordings – or both.

None of that’s too important, but does point to the talent both Charles K. Noyes and M.E. Miller possessed. It was apparently evident to some of those top tier downtown jazzbos as well. But the fact that the Toy Killers disappeared after just about a four year period reasserts the idea that No Wave was just a flash in the pan. This stuff, though, is at times on par with Sonic Youth’s first EP. And that’s incredible.

There’s no concerted musical style set forth over the course of The Unlistenable Years, the compilation Weasel assembled. It moves from mutant dance music to stuff that seems like it would have counted as performance art. There’s a slew of improvisations tacked on to the tail of the disc – not the best part. But some of the earlier proper compositions – namely “Smoky Raindrops” and its aural brethren – are hard to deny as some of the most engaging and rhythmically interesting No Wave stuff out there.

The Toy Killers aren’t for a general audience. But No New York fans should snatch this right quick.

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